


A Question of Lust

by SimulationTheory



Series: A Question of Time [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: 2019, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, Phone Sex, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimulationTheory/pseuds/SimulationTheory
Summary: “Hey”. Rafa realises he’s been staring out at nothing, the phone slack in his hand as if the call has disconnected. He turns his attention back to Roger, and instantly recognises a change in his expression. He’s still smiling but now there’s an intensity to his gaze which licks down Rafa’s spine like melting ice.“You know what I would do if I was there with you?”





	A Question of Lust

**Author's Note:**

> A direct sequel to "RUSH" although this can be read as a stand-alone piece.
> 
> Title and song lyrics once again shamelessly borrowed from the Depeche Mode song of the same name.
> 
> Aside from the basic timeline, none of this happened. Apart from the bits that...possibly did.
> 
> [The Rossi Birthday video, for reference](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eyh72tmwLbI)

  
_Fragile_  
_Like a baby in your arms_  
_Be gentle with me_  
_I'd never willingly do you harm_  
_Apologies_  
_Are all you seem to get from me_  
_But just like a child_  
_You make me smile when you care for me_  
_And you know…_

**Australian Open, Melbourne, 27th January 2019**

Barely anyone is left in the locker room. Thankfully Djokovic and his team have already left, all raucous cheer, chest bumps and back slaps. A few officials are surreptitiously cleaning up, discreetly giving a wide berth to the figures still in one corner.

Rafa looks up at Charly, who has cleared out their lockers and is now shifting from foot to foot. Nobody seems to know quite what to say. It’s a triumph that he made it this far - to the final - considering he’d been on crutches a few short weeks earlier. But the subsequent loss, the manner of it, in front of a world that wanted the fairy tale to continue, was tough to take.

He stands slowly, carefully. Shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t believe in fairy tales.

“Come on.” he holds out his hand and takes the jacket Maymo holds out to him. “Let’s go home”.

Charly smiles.

\---

When he gets back to the suite in which he and Mery have kept an uneasy peace over the last few days, he finds that she has almost finished packing for them both. 

“We managed to get an earlier flight back” she tells him softly, as he pokes through the piles of clothes, looking for something clean to wear for the journey. He nods but doesn’t reply as he selects items, tugging them back out of the suitcase. He never has much to say after he’s been beaten, prefering to retreat and regroup as soon as possible, and Mery is long since used to this. He knows she won’t take his silence for anything other than it usually is. 

Which sometimes allows him the luxury to brood on other matters. Such as Roger. Who had texted before the match to wish him luck, and he hadn’t replied then. He doesn’t know what to reply now, either. He has a vague sense of having let him down somehow, even though he knows that’s not really the case. He sighs and heads to the en-suite, clothes in hand. He showered after the match but fancies that he can still smell the failure on himself. 

“Rafa”. His hand freezes on the door of the bathroom as he turns. When he meets Mery’s eyes, they are soft. “I’m so proud of you. We all are”.

He bites his lip, nods minutely, Not fully trusting himself to reply, he pushes the door and retreats from view.

\---

The team pauses to take a group photo outside the Crown Towers lobby, as the valets load their bags into the private airport shuttle. Exhausted smiles as the reality of the achievement sinks in. It’ll reassure his social media, Benito tells him, that things are good, that this is an upward step.  
As they break apart he feels a gentle vibration from the back pocket of his jeans and he knows, before he reaches back to take out the phone, that it’s Roger. Because it has to be - nobody else has the number for this handset, that Roger gave to him. Unthinkingly he swipes up with his thumb, and his eyes linger on the few words that glow in his palm.

> You did your best, liebchen. You can rest now. Be ready for me in Indian Wells.  
>  Ich Liebe Dich. Du bist mein. R

Rafa crinkles a smile, unable to resist reading it again before locking the handset and fumbling to replace it. As he does so he looks up to see Mery watching him, her ready smile fading as she watches the phone disappear out of view. It’s not the one he normally uses, and until now she didn’t know it existed. She does now. Damn. _Damn_.  
He maintains eye contact, too tired right now to do anything other than instinctively brazen it out, and she’s first to look away, pulling her jacket protectively around herself as she climbs into the waiting car. 

He sleeps for most of the flight back to Majorca. Dreamless, restless. Whenever he shifts on the makeshift bed of his first class seat, he can still feel a slight ache, where the ghost of a belt licked at him once, just once. Part of him wishes it had bruised more, because it’s the closest he can get to Roger’s touch right now. 

**Costa Mujeres, Mexico - 18th February 2019**

It’s too hot, too humid, everything is running late and Charly has already reproached him once for his mood.

They’re at the Grand Palladium for the opening of Rafa’s latest tennis franchise and he should be thrilled about it. And he is, he truly is. It’s just...he looks out at the palm tree lined pool and all the tanned faces, and a small tired voice inside of him doesn’t want this right now. It wants everything he doesn’t normally crave, sensations that are alien to his Mediteranean nature. Mountains. Snowdrifts. Biting cold. Because that’s what Roger sees, is seeing right now, thousands of miles away as he vacations with his family, and Rafa feels an unfamiliar pang of jealousy.  
To his frustration, he’d missed the calls Roger had tried to place. The time difference had meant Roger could only call once his kids were in bed, which had clashed with Rafa’s afternoons out on the boat in Cancun. The signal in the bay was bad and there was virtually no privacy anyway, for what he would want to say. He’d sent apologetic texts and hoped it would be enough. It didn’t feel like enough. He found himself replaying the Rossi birthday video over and over on Youtube, just for a glimpse of Roger there, bundled up with snowflakes swirling as he laughs and waves. 

Charly taps him sharply on the shoulder then, and hisses at him to smile for the assembled journalists. After a perfunctory Q&A, they hit with some locals on the pristine clay at his new facility, and finally his heart lifts. He can lose himself in the cadence and rhythm of tennis, and he doesn’t think of snow or mountains or a funny shaped nose glowing red with cold until much, much later.

**Acapulco, Mexico - 28th February 2019**

He’d breezed past Mischa Zverev in the first round, putting to rest the fears that the twinge he’d felt in his hand wasn’t about to develop into an issue. He knows better than most that even the smallest niggle can quickly become problematic if he doesn’t pay heed to his body. He’d known that Kyrgios, in the next round, would be a sterner test. Whereas Zverev was sullen, workmanlike focus, Kyrgios was wildly volatile in a way that Rafa instinctively disapproved of. He recognised the blazing talent but abhorred the theatrics, temper tantrums, and contempt for the game that gave them all such a privileged living. He knows precisely what his Uncle Toni would think - does think - of such an attitude, and smiles grimly at the thought.

So yes, he had thought he was prepared for what was to come, and it had all started well enough. But after taking the first set 6-3, things had turned sour. 

Three match points came and went, and he found himself having to extend a cold congratulatory handshake to an opponent who hadn’t even broken him. The presser afterwards was a PR disaster - he knew that much before reading Benito’s admonishing texts. He’d felt that Kyrgios had been disrespectful and had said so, which was just the soundbite that the assembled journalists needed to sign off their sensationalist copy for the night.

Rafa sighs deeply and takes a swig of the cold beer he’d grabbed from the hotel minibar. The balcony of his suite looks out over the water which shimmers in the moonlight, and he watches the gentle motion of the waves. The rest of his team have long since retired to their own rooms, quickly realising that their charge was best left alone to work things out for himself. He’d lashed out at Charly for suggesting that sitting out the rest of the tournament would enable more recovery time for Indian Wells. He didn’t want to rest. He wanted to _win_. And he’d been so close, that he knew this one was going weigh heavily on his confidence. He’ll apologise to them in the morning, though. It’s the right thing to do.

He can hear music faintly in the distance and wonders if it’s one of the bars by the beach. The tune is familiar. He absentmindedly hums along until it stops mid-verse, and he realises it was someone’s ringtone. His ringtone. From the second handset that he carries with him. Roger.

Shoving open the sliding door, he hurries back into the air-conditioned cool of the suite and dumps the contents of his bag onto the floor without ceremony. He sees the glow amongst the packets of unused match kit, and grabs for it. He waits until he is back on the balcony, beer in hand, before checking the screen, heart thumping in his throat as he sees that there’s a text alongside the missed call. Taking a long swig, he tilts the handset so it unlocks, and the notification unfurls. The message is brief.

> Rafael. Call me now.

Roger picks up on the second ring, before Rafa has even considered what to say.

“Don’t let him get to you”. Roger instantly dispenses with any social niceties. He gets that there’s little point in asking Rafa how he is, because he _knows_.

“Roger, I have match points. It was for me to take, no?” the words come out in a rush. He has barely talked to Roger since Melbourne and he really doesn’t want to get into a match dissection with him right now. It’s not something they do, as a general rule.

Roger won’t let it drop, though.

“Rafa. It happens. He got lucky. And you know he won’t go the distance when it matters”

Rafa feels a flash of anger that Roger seems to be taking this so lightly. “It matters now. To me, it matters very much.” He pauses, does a little arithmetic. “You did not see it so you do not know what happened. Only what you read”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line, and as it crackles minutely, Rafa suddenly wants to claw the words right back out of the air and start over. The man he loves is calling from halfway across the world to console him, and doesn’t deserve the brunt of his anger and helplessness.  
“You’re right” Roger acknowledges coolly “I didn’t see it. Not when you were playing, it was the middle of the night here. But I woke up early to check the scores. You know that’s the best I can do right now. And I know Nick and I’m telling you” he pauses, huffs in frustration, “...I’m telling you that this isn’t worth your energy. You have to move on from it.”

“In thirty minutes maybe I do that. Like you with Tsitsipas?”

The pause at the end of the line is even longer this time, and Rafa considers hanging up before he can do any more damage. They haven’t talked about his Australian Open loss since that night in the Crown, and even though Roger had faced the press with his customary calm, Rafa knew better than anyone how wounded he had been. He’s appalled at himself for even bringing it up.

“Dios, I’m sorry, Roger, You know I am not thinking…”

“Rafael” Roger’s tone is clipped as he cuts across whatever Rafa was going to say next. “Shut up”

Rafa puts his beer down on the table and puts his free hand to his temple, trying to smooth the creases from his forehead. Roger hasn’t hung up, so there is still a chance for him to try and put this right. He’s mentally reviewing possible responses when Roger speaks again, softer this time.

“I didn’t call to argue with you”

“Si, I know this. I never want to argue. I’m just tired, is not your fault” Rafa rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“I know, liebchen” he can hear the warm smile in Roger’s voice. “Let me see you”

It takes him a moment to realise what Roger means, and he moves the handset away from his ear. His palms are slick with sweat and condensation from the beer bottle and he promptly cuts Roger off. After some cursing and fumbling he finds the video calling option and stabs at the button. It rings and rings.

“Sorry” the screen suddenly crackles into life and there he is, walking somewhere as he talks “I decided to go and sit outside before it gets too hot”. Roger’s villa in Dubai has lush gardens, and in the background Rafa can see flashes of greens and tree blossoms.

“Looks good” Rafa can’t help but smile at the sight of Roger’s face. Something about it always makes him feel so content, secure somehow. He wishes he had called on the laptop instead, so the picture would be bigger.

“Thanks” Roger glances around, still moving somewhere. “Takes a lot of work to keep it looking like this in the climate, but we used recycled wastewater where we can”

“I...was not speaking of the garden. But that is good too”

“Ah”. Roger has settled somewhere now, and his mouth curves into a smile as he sees Rafa peering at the screen. “Are you sitting in the dark? It’s hard to see you” 

Rafa hadn’t turned the balcony lamps on when he had ventured out, as he’d have easily been seen by anyone else who had similar ideas. Now, with only baleful moonlight to illuminate him, he’s just another flickering shadow.

“I’m outside” the picture breaks up as he turns his phone around, but Roger can’t make out anything other than the faint blur of distant lights. “Could not sleep. And I could not breathe in the room. Here is better”. 

Roger nods. Rafa knows that he of all people gets it, the frustration and anger, when you want so badly to rewind and do something again, change the outcome, but its always going to be just out of your reach. It feels like they are sharing a secret, in a way. Something that nobody else could really understand. Sometimes it helps.

“Hey”. Rafa realises he’s been staring out at nothing, the phone slack in his hand as if the call has disconnected. He turns his attention back to Roger, and instantly recognises a change in his expression. He’s still smiling but now there’s an intensity to his gaze which licks down Rafa’s spine like melting ice.

“You know what I would do if I was there with you?” 

“I…ahhh” Rafa shivers, exhales. His eyes flutter shut.

“You do know. I can see that you do” Rafa swallows and nods. He wants to hear Roger say it. His head drops to his chest as he waits, breath suspended.

“I’d make you stand, I think. So you could hold on to the rail.” Roger’s voice is low and sure, the words twisting and curling in Rafa’s belly. “Facing the water. And I would stand behind you. You would take your shirt off so you can feel me as I press against you”

Rafa groans low in his throat, shifting restlessly on the couch.

“I’d switch the lights on” Roger continues, almost conversationally. “So if someone else is outside, and they look, maybe they’ll see something.” He pauses, bites his lower lip. “Maybe they’ll see what I’m doing with my hands”

“Tell me” Rafa breathes, one hand already slipping under his t-shirt to pull at the waistband of his shorts. “Roger, tell me please”

A hum of satisfaction from Roger and he continues, never breaking eye contact. “My left hand, I think would be holding that gorgeous ass of yours. Maybe my fingers would be wet” he pauses and slowly, deliberately, brings two fingers to his mouth, where Rafa can see, and runs his tongue along the pads. “...easier to open you up a little”. Roger makes a minute scissoring motion and is rewarded with a whimper.

“Now my right hand...hmmmm” A shift as Roger transfers the phone to his left hand. “Where should that be.” He holds up his palm and the callous that Rafa loves so much can faintly be seen in the morning desert light. He’s suddenly swamped with sensations. The slight rasp when it cradles his jaw. The burn when it collides with his ass cheek, over and over until he begs incoherently. The firm relentless grip as it wrings another orgasm from him. He’s fully hard now and scrambles to his feet, the privacy of his empty bed is just a few steps away.

“Stay where you are”. Across thousands of miles, Roger’s tone is soft but absolute. He backs up, crouching slightly, and lowers himself back to the couch.

“Roger. I need…”

“I know. Touch yourself as much as you want, liebchen. It’s ok”

“But here?” the other balconies are dark, yet anyone stepping out for some late night air might see him. Or hear him. He struggles to stay quiet during sex, and Roger has become quite inventive with gags over the years.

“Yes. There. Show me”

He grunts and nods, dragging his damp t-shirt over his head. Pops the button on his shorts and frees himself, hot and aching against the cool night air. He has to hold the phone at an angle but the groan from Roger tells him that he can see.

“I show you then” he rasps, hunching over to shield himself as best he can “and you tell me what you would do. If my hand is your hand”

There’s a pause, and he wonders if he has gone too far. Roger has given him permission to touch himself, he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask for more.

“OK. Look at me for a second” Roger has also removed his t-shirt now, and Rafa can see the broad spread of his collarbone. Beads of sweat in the sun gathering on the silky dark hair there. “You don’t need to wait for me. Not this time. Tonight you can go as hard and fast as you need”. He raises his hand again, forms the fingers into a loose fist. It’s all the encouragement Rafa needs.

He drags his fingers swiftly over the head of his cock, smears the precome down his length and curls his hand around it with a quiet gasp. He’s crying out for the friction but again he waits. Out of habit or obedience, he’s not sure.

“I’ve got you” Roger croons. “You’re so hard for me, so hot”. Rafa exhales and squeezes his eyes shut. Still he doesn’t move his hand even though the torture is exquisite. For a moment there’s just the sound of both of them breathing, loud and harsh across the miles. “God” Roger’s voice sounds shaky now. “I wish I was there with you. Fuck, Rafa, _move”_

Rafa twists the phone towards his groin, squeezes with his other hand. More precome seeps out and he knows Roger sees because he hears the expletive as he flicks his wrist. Pull and twist. Pull and twist. A familiar rhythm. Slip slide of skin and sweat and he can’t help the whimpering gasps that each jerk of his arm wrenches from him. Roger encourages him in a low breathless voice, words he doesnt need to understand.  
It’s good, so good, but it’s not enough - he feels his balls tighten, chasing that final push. If Roger was here…

“Rafa, if I was there I would fuck you so hard that the whole resort would hear you scream”

His cock twitches in his hand at this and he almost sobs in frustration. He needs Roger’s hands on him and he can’t have that, not tonight, when his release seems to get further away with every stroke.

If Roger was here...he pauses, moves the phone to his right hand. The angle is different, awkward for a natural right hander but as soon as he feels the graze of the rougher skin on his cock he hisses. Yes. _Yes_. He starts to move, eyes closed, and listens to Roger’s praise, his adoration. Thinks of Roger and his touch. The single point of his keenest desire. He increases the tempo, the slick wet sounds obscenely loud, anyone could be watching but he doesn’t care. He’s too far gone now. The phone clatters to the floor as he shoves his fist into his mouth. He can feel the surge of warmth, like a tide, starting in his lower limbs and rushing up to greet him and he chases it. Welcomes it.  
One final thrust into his hand, fist slippery with sweat and he arches his back as he comes. Bares his throat to the sky and bites down with a scream as he spills over his shaking belly and thighs. He heaves in shuddering breaths and slumps backwards, gasping and boneless. Eyes still screwed shut against the moon's pale scrutiny.

A sliding door scrapes against the silence of the dark and he’s bolt upright, glancing around wildly. He can’t be seen like this. Wiping his hand hastily on his shorts he drags them up around himself, bent almost double as he shuffles to the door. He scoops up his discarded t-shirt and scrambles for the safety of his room.

Once the curtains are shut behind him he straightens up, and catches sight of himself in the mirror. Dishevelled and flushed, shorts smeared with come. Exhaustion etched in his features, but there’s a defiant joy there too, that he hasn’t seen looking back at him in a while. He stares for a moment before the laughter bubbles up inside him. Shaking his head, he steps out of his shorts and heads for the bathroom to clean up.

It’s only after a long cool shower that he remembers the phone.

The handset has ended up under the couch - thankfully unbroken from the fall - and he waits until he is in bed before he unlocks it. Roger has long since rung off but there’s a text. And a picture message. He opens that first and for a moment, he can’t even breathe.

Roger must have taken it just after their call, as he’s still in the garden. He’s naked, sprawling on one end of a swingset. The ripening sun casts shadows that don’t hide how aroused he is. Nor do his eyes as they bore into the lens. For all the pictures he has taken of Rafa before, he’s never sent one of himself. At least not one as graphic as this. It’s _beautiful_. Rafa looks at it for a long time, the thrill of lust and belonging he so often feels when he sees his lover, tempered by years of guilt and the bitter tang of absence.

The text is just a hyperlink. When he clicks on it, it opens up maps, and pinpoints an address in the Coachella Valley. An estate, and as he recognises the place names a warmth kindles in his chest. Indian Wells.  
He sleeps better than he has in months.

Three days later, he gathers with his team in the lounge of their large rented house in a lush Californian suburb. Whitewashed walls filled with spanish voices, luggage and delivered supplies, the process of turning a living space into something comforting and familiar all part of the routine that they’ve developed. The lounge has a TV hooked up to a projector and when Roger hoists his winners trophy in Dubai, his smile fills almost an entire wall.  
Everyone else files out during the ceremony, muttering about breakfast and preparations but in reality, Rafa knows it’s just to give him some space. It’s Roger’s 100th title and after false starts in Paris and Melbourne he’s finally lifted that weight from his shoulders. He glows with a quiet pride, for all Roger’s protests that the records didn’t matter, nobody had really been fooled. 

He texts his congratulations, and sees that they’ve been read, but he hears nothing back. Rafa tells himself repeatedly in the dark hours of night that he shouldn’t doubt what they have between them, not after all this time. That Roger is just being discreet and he shouldn’t be insecure.

Sometimes? He can almost make himself believe it.

 _It's a question of lust_  
_It's a question of trust_  
_It's a question of not letting what we've built up_  
_Crumble to dust_  
_It is all of these things and more_  
_That keep us together_


End file.
